


Sassenach

by platinumkoi



Category: Outlander (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Assault, First Meetings, M/M, War, implied rescue from rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4884661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platinumkoi/pseuds/platinumkoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John worries for himself and James when he encounters a band of Scottish warriors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sassenach

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to jamlockk for the super helpful beta to improve the Scottish accents in the dialogue and for organizing this challenge!

John woke up on the back of horse in front of his erstwhile rescuer. He wished again that this was all a dream -- it wouldn't have been the first time that he had relived bullets whizzing past him, even after V Day he still had nightmares of the war -- but the foul, unwashed smell of his savior and kidnapper was more real than any dream he'd ever had. _But if it wasn't a hallucination why were the costumed soldiers using live rounds in their antique weapons?_

They were riding between rolling hills, but John didn’t recognize where they were. He rubbed the back of his head ruefully and wished his silver-haired rescuer had trusted him to retreat from the battle quietly instead of knocking him out. They were approaching a rustic house of stone with a thatched roof. The house was clearly occupied as smoke was rising out of the chimney and more than half a dozen horses were resting under a tree nearby. After adding his horse to the herd, John's guardian pulled him down and supported him through the rough wooden door into the dim cottage.

As John's eyes adjusted to the firelight, he heard conversation in Gaelic. John recognized the characteristic sounds and rhythm from his summer childhoods spent in Scotland with his grandmother but couldn't make out what they were saying. John inwardly cursed his lack of linguistic talent and general forgetfulness. Military training kicked in as soon as his pupils dilated, and John scanned the room. Three warriors on stools by the fire. About five standing apart, battle tousled and dirty, all in kilts or slightly longer skirts. John didn't bother to count as he was already vastly outnumbered and unarmed. John automatically discounted his pocketknife as a child's toy compared to the numerous swords and pistols hanging off everyone else in the ramshackle room.

A beak-nosed ginger stood up from one of the stools and walked over to John. “Let’s have a look at you then, lad,” he said in English, firmly pulling John close to the fire.

“I trust you’re able to see me now?” sassed John, well aware that he was addressing the man in charge.

“What’s yer name?” the leader asked, giving John a searching look.

John thought quickly. Until he had determined their motives he didn’t want to lead these ruffians to James. He’d use only his own surname and leave James out of it for now. “John. John Watson.”

“John Watson," repeated the ringleader.

“That’s right. And just what the hell do you think . . .” John attempted to ask.

The ginger talked over him and turned to his deliverer, “You said you found him?”

“Aye. He was having words with a certain captain of dragoons with whom we are acquainted. There seemed to be a question whether the lad was or was not a whore.”

“And what was the lad’s position in this discussion?” asked the boss, raising an eyebrow.

“I am not.” John stated flatly.

“We could put him to the test,” giggled a warrior with long hair in dark, tight curls.

“I don’t hold with rape,” declared the leader. He softened his criticism, “We’ve no time for that anyway.”

John's rescuer spoke up again, “Mycroft, I’ve no idea what he might be or who, but I’ll stick my best shot he’s not a whore.”

“We’ll puzzle him out later,” Mycroft decided as he turned back to the fire. “We’ve got a good distance to go tonight, and we must do something about Sherlock first.” Mycroft kneeled down in front of a gangly young man on a stool. “It’s the joint, poor bugger. Ye cannae ride like that, can ye, lad?”

“It’s bad enough sitting still. I couldna manage a horse,” replied the injured man who must be Sherlock.

“I dinna mean to be leaving him behind,” declared Mycroft, standing up.

The attention was completely on Sherlock now, and John stood forgotten. He wondered, _should I make a break for it and risk wandering aimlessly through the highlands until I find civilized folk once more?_

“There’s no help for it then. I’ll have to force the joint back. Here lad." A slight man with lanky dark hair and a goatee handed Sherlock a flask.

“Thank God,” exclaimed Sherlock as he set about removing the cork with his teeth.

“Dimmock. Angus,” Mycroft gestured with his head toward Sherlock. The two warriors walked over to stand behind Sherlock.

John thought through his situation: outnumbered by an armed gang with no clear motive, an unknown distance by horse from where he had been rescued from the strange battle, the circle of standing stones where he had left the car in an unknown direction. John was uncertain how much time had passed while he was knocked out. If he couldn’t borrow, _steal_ , a horse, he would have to walk. There was no way with his bum leg that he could outdistance these rough horsemen if he walked. But, on the other hand, he wasn’t a confident enough rider to pick his way through unknown territory in the dark.

“Haud him,” ordered Mycroft. Sherlock grunted as the the warriors grabbed him.

At the sound of pain, John forgot his plans of escape. “Don’t you dare!” shouted John as he quickly hobbled toward Sherlock.

Instantly, all the warriors drew their knives and pointed them at John, stopping him in his tracks.

“Stand aside at once,” demanded John. Turning to Mycroft he explained, “You’ll break his arm if you do it like that. You have to get the bone of the upper arm into the correct position before it slips back into joint.”  

Mycroft gave John another searching look and then stood back to let him pass. All the knives were resheathed at the nonverbal signal of the leader's approval.

John stepped in front of the stool and looked down at the young man's face for the first time. He had dark auburn curls which glinted flame red where the firelight hit them, strong eyebrows, surprisingly long eyelashes, and, _oh god, almond eyes like James'_ , thought John as Sherlock tilted his head up to look at him. _They're more green than James' with gold flecks in this light. What beautiful eyes._ Sherlock's expression turned from wary to wondering as John held his gaze for a long moment until John remembered what he was about.

Sherlock’s cream-coloured shirt was already torn open at the shoulder to allow free access for treatment and was also halfway unbuttoned down the front. _Thin and wiry like James too._ John tore his eyes away from admiring Sherlock’s lean musculature and grasped his injured arm, eliciting a miserable groan. “Hold him steady,” John commanded Dimmock and Angus. He looked reassuringly into Sherlock’s eyes and nodded. Sherlock met his eyes and grimly nodded back. John turned Sherlock's arm, drawing forth a long moan from him. Having got his arm into position, John warned, “Ok. This is the worst part." Meeting his eyes, Sherlock nodded again, chest heaving in anticipation of more pain. With a deep breath, John wrenched Sherlock’s shoulder back into joint. The faint squelching sounds of muscles realigning and Sherlock's loud groans filled the room for a long moment until the removal of John's hands from Sherlock's arm signaled an end to the procedure.

Sherlock locked eyes with John. Shock and unguarded relief passed over his face. “It disnae hurt anymore," Sherlock breathed in his resonant baritone.

“It will," warned John. "It will be tender for about a week. You’ll need a sling.” He turned to the goateed man. “You," he ordered, "fetch me a long piece of cloth or a belt.”

“Fetch me, he said,” taunted the ruffian. “Did you hear the lad?”

“Gi'e him yer belt,” ordered Mycroft. The buffoon stared at Mycroft, raising an eyebrow in the universal message of _can you believe this guy?_ Mycroft merely nodded back at him imperiously, prompting a crestfallen look from the joker as he began to unfasten his belt.

“Ye’ve done this afore,” stated Sherlock, still looking at John.

“I’m a nurse.”

“Aye?” asked Sherlock, glancing down at John’s flat chest.

“Not a wet nurse," answered John with a shake of his head and an exasperated smirk. Half of Sherlock's mouth answered in a small, lopsided grin.

John grabbed the proffered belt. “You mustn’t move the joint for two or three days,” he said as he wrapped the belt around Sherlock, pinning his injured arm to his side. “When you begin to use it again, go very slowly at first. Stop at once if it hurts. And use warm compresses on it daily." John fastened the belt in place and stepped back to have a look at his handiwork. "Alright, how does that feel?”

“Better,” replied Sherlock giving John another half-smile. “Thank ye.”

“Can ye ride?” asked Mycroft.

“Aye.”

“Good. We’re leaving." Mycroft tossed Sherlock his saddle bag.

Sherlock looked John up and down, his turquoise eyes no longer dulled with pain but lively and intelligent. John stood exposed under his penetrating gaze for a long moment. The attention was intimate, thrilling but dangerous. John hardly dared to breathe; he still didn't know this group's intentions toward him. So, worried that Sherlock would somehow uncover his full identity, John finally looked away as the warriors began to file to the door around them.


End file.
